


Butler in Manhattan

by LegaleseSchitt



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-01-15 19:48:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21258686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegaleseSchitt/pseuds/LegaleseSchitt
Summary: David Rose was dressed in a black coat with a white shirt. Monochrome. At least that part was correct. The coat itself, however, was a waistcoat, and the white shirt was a Windsor cut. Those were ... incorrect. David had always been a trendsetter when fortune allowed, actively defining fashion rules for himself and the rest of the world, but now David's style had been reduced to a daily "uniform", the fashion rules of which were set by the hotel where he worked.OR David is a butler in a hotel, dreaming of opening up his own hotel someday and falling for a guest at the hotel.  Maid in Manhattan (J-Lo) style. Identities are mixed up, and cuteness and comedy ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David Rose was dressed in a black coat with a white shirt. Monochrome. At least that part was correct. The coat itself, however, was a waistcoat, and the white shirt was a Windsor cut. Those were ... incorrect. David had always been a trendsetter when fortune allowed, actively defining fashion rules for himself and the rest of the world, but now David's style had been reduced to a daily "uniform", the fashion rules of which were set by the hotel where he worked.

David Rose was dressed in a black coat with a white shirt. Monochrome. At least that part was correct. The coat itself, however, was a waistcoat, and the white shirt was a Windsor cut. Those were ... incorrect. David had always been a trendsetter when fortune allowed, actively defining fashion rules for himself and the rest of the world, but now David's style had been reduced to a daily "uniform", the fashion rules of which were set by the hotel where he worked.

On his first day of butler training, David had vehemently advocated for wearing his pocket square with The Rose Fold, the only correct fold for a pocket square as far as David was concerned, but the head butler was unyielding when it came to uniform appearances and the single point fold had won the day ... and the next day ... and endlessly on the days moving forward. David had been trained in house by hotel staff, having gotten the entry-level assistant butler job because David's own former butler had known someone with influence at the hotel. David had hosted parties and ordered maids and nannies around for most of his life, so when he was reduced to poverty, the hospitality industry seemed like a good fit. 

Daily, David donned his butler uniform and passed inspection (okay, well, the head butler couldn't see that David clung to his fashion independence by wearing his own Tom Ford-label undershirts, instead of the standard issued ones from Macy's), but the head butler found other parts of David to criticize, most particularly his facial expressions. Apparently, as David soon learned, a butler is not permitted to have "face journeys" while overhearing the horrifying, intimate conversations of guests. Nor cringing while vamoosing a dish that a guest had placed a used tissue on. Nor raising an eyebrow while assessing the burnt orange socks that an uncoordinated guest had paired with a tweed dinner jacket. No leaning his head back during exasperating boredom. David quickly learned that the only thing that kept him from his many face journeys was silently humming Mariah Carey songs in his head throughout his shift. 

This was a Wednesday, and David was ushering guests in and out of Suite B13 where a CEO was hosting business advisors and investors around a large oak conference table, with a plethora of assistants and lesser-thans seated in less prominent places around the room. There were spreadsheets, corporate buzzwords, PowerPoint slides, and name placards, and apparently a lot of comings and goings. 

Dreamlover come rescue me, Take me up take me down, Take me anywhere you want to baby now, David hummed in his head. 

The CEO was stating his case for a stock buyback plan and reissuance of new priority shares, whatever that meant, but everyone looked up with interest at the mention of the new priority shares. 

I need you so desperately, Won't you please come around, 'Cause I wanna share forever with you baby, David continued humming Dreamlover in his mind, while opening the door for a latecomer, acknowledging his whispered introduction, then escorting him around the table and pulling out the chair in front of the appropriate name placard.

A wide-eyed 30 year old in a blue button down shirt was addressing the room at the moment, directing everyone to review Line whatever on spreadsheet number whatever to see the quarterly earnings of something. The name placard in front of him said Patrick, and he was the only memorable person in the room. Patrick had greeted David with a polite but teasing half-smirk when David had ushered Patrick to his seat at the start of the meeting. Patrick had reached out his hand, and placed his hand at David's pocket-level, and gave David a $50 bill along with a whispered request that David come to Patrick's side at exactly 7:35pm, whisper "it's show time" in Patrick's ear, and escort Patrick out of the room as if on important professional business. David had nodded at the request, and brushed his fingers past Patrick's to claim the tip. The light touch and whispered timber of Patrick's voice had left David desperate for 7:35pm.

Hours passed with many comings and goings, and thank God for the required gratuity on these type of bookings because the corporate types only tip when they are drinking and the CEO had directed the hotel staff to keep the bar closed until 8pm. 

After what must have been 50 hummed Mariah Carey tunes, David glanced at the clock and made his way over to Patrick. Placing his hand on Patrick's shoulder, David whispered "it's show time" in Patrick's ear. David pulled out Patrick's chair from the conference table, and escorted him to the entry room to Suite B13. "Could I be of any further service to you, Sir?" David asked in his trained, not-at-all-natural-to-David-Rose voice. Patrick gave another teasing half-smirk, handed David a business-card-sized slip of paper on top of another $50 bill, and said, "I have a Mariah Carey cover. Not Dreamlover, but based on your humming, I'm sure you'll know it." And Patrick swiftly left the entryway. 

Had David been humming out loud?

David looked down at the slip of paper, which read "V.I.P. Entry, Harrow Fair with guest musician Patrick Brewer, Wednesday, October 30 at 10pm at the Dakota Tavern." David's best friend, Stevie, a maid on the floor, brushed past David, and snagged the VIP Entry out of David's hand. "Ohhhh. He was cute." She said as she read the paper. "And you're going."

David looked down at his Windor cut shirt, doubtfully. "Don't be a little B. I get off at 9, and there is no way that I am wearing this or the joggers in my locker. Besides, I'm trying very hard not to connect with people right now."

Stevie grabbed David's arm with a knowing smile, steering David into a room 4 doors down, into one of the executive suites with 3 rooms, a full bar, and a king size bed. She raced to the closet. "Mr. Smith asked me to deliver these Givenchy items to his tailor, but if I remember correctly, Givenchy hired you as the sizing model for this line ... "


	2. Out on the town with a man wearing borrowed Givenchy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next scenes, from Patrick's perspective. 
> 
> A few moments later, his guest mused out loud, “A businessman and a butter-voiced musician." 
> 
> Patrick gave an amused smile.
> 
> “I was … 87% sure that I was going to regret coming to hear you play tonight,” added the cute guest. 
> 
> “Good to know,” Patrick said with a shy smirk. “Attended a few cringe-worthy open mic nights, have you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I added some real life Noah references here.
> 
> I also don't know which designer created David's open mic night sweater, just roll with me on this.

Patrick raced to the elevators and through the hotel lobby. Even though he had arranged with the front desk and bellman ahead of time to have his guitar case and knapsack ready, and a cab waiting, he knew that he was running close on time. Stuffed into his briefcase were sheet music and other essentials. He had often been called out by other musicians about how ridiculous he looked carrying a briefcase backstage, but it was an essential part of his day-life and night-life balance. He tipped the bellman, who put Patrick’s items into the trunk of the cab. 

Looking at the time on the dash of the cab, Patrick's eyes widened at the prospect of having only 22 minutes to get to the Dakota Tavern for sound check. As if having a briefcase was not sufficiently absurd, he was going to have to go on stage in his business suit for sound check. Mixing these two pieces of his life couldn’t be helped, though; he would have to wait until after the sound crew gave him the thumbs up before changing into the casual performance attire that he had in his knapsack. 

Patrick operates best with a healthy dose of nerves and not knowing, but even this was cutting it a bit close for him. Knowing that he should be using the time in the cab to jot down his set list , Patrick's mind instead was giddy with thoughts of a certain hotel butler. Patrick had been flirting with the idea that he might not be exactly straight for a few years now, but he had never been a particularly sexual person, so he was less-than-eager to experiment. Handing the butler the VIP Entry pass to the butler had either been a carefully-calculated experiment, or a failure of his own impulse control, even Patrick wasn't sure what made him do it. He had been slowly daring himself to get close to the butler, wandering to the back of the conference room, needlessly refilling his tea all afternoon. After being admonished for the third time by the serving attendant for serving himself, he made an unnecessary trip to the restroom, and then to the cloak room, exiting through the doors beside the butler. In all the trips, Patrick was desperately trying to catch on to what the butler was humming. 

***

Sound check went well, and Patrick quickly changed into his blue henley and mid-range denim. He smirked down at the blue jeans, knowing that his co-worker Patrice, who was still schmoozing investors in the hotel conference room, always the overly-ambitious sort, would disapprove of them. After all, Patrice is the one who had first called Patrick’s blue jeans “mid-range denim” when she caught Patrick shortcutting from the office to a show one evening. Patrick, always polite, had smiled, but snarked back in his mind, "Nobody likes you, Patrice!" So, changing in the bar bathroom, dancing from dress shoe to white runners while balancing his jacket and tie on one arm, and his henley on the other, had become his routine. 

Now comfortable in his “mid-range denim”, Patrick was buzzing with excitement for this show. He had added a special cover to his set list in the off chance that the butler turned up at the Dakota Tavern.

The butler probably had never been to a bar or a show like this, but he also looked like he had never stood for 4 hours ushering business people in and out of a board room either, Patrick thought to himself. What was such a beautiful, perfectly-coiffed man doing masquerading as a butler? He belonged on magazine covers. 

Patrick had debated handing the butler both of his VIP Entry passes, but he didn't want to accidentally invite the butler to bring a date. And Patrick only wanted the butler to show up if he was a single man interested in listening to another single man serenade him with Mariah Carey. Somehow, Patrick had found the courage to ask a guy – this beautiful, Mariah-Carey-humming guy – out on a date, and he wanted that to be clear from the moment he handed over the pass 

***

The violinist-vocalist who had opened the show along with her bandmate, looked out over the now-standing-room-only bar. “Now, please give a warm welcome to my dear friend, Patrick Brewer.” The crowd whistled. Patrick came on stage with a slight downward headbob before looking up with a wide smile and bright eyes. What the crowd didn’t see was that he pretended to swing a baseball bat before he left his position behind the drum set at the back of the stage. Patrick waved at the crowd, gave the violinist-vocalist a kiss on the cheek, and then sat down at the piano. 

Patrick joined the band as a vocalist-pianist for the first few songs, which they had co-composed. Those songs had dueling male and female vocals that paired well with the dueling parts of the piano and violin. Then, the violinist and the rest of the band left the stage, leaving Patrick sitting alone in the spot light on a stool, with only a guitar and a microphone. 

Glancing out at the crowd, Patrick tried not to be disappointed when he didn’t recognize any of the faces. Maybe he should impromptu remove the Mariah Carey cover from his set list. It felt absurd to him to sing that song to a faceless crowd. Of course, the butler didn’t show up, Patrick thought. He probably had a boyfriend or was busy with a more enticing social life than listening to a spreadsheet-directing businessman play guitar at a bar. 

Patrick looked down at his guitar, then putting his hand on the microphone thanked the crowd for coming out and started with a folksy song from Patrick’s album. Yes, Patrick had released an album; he even had to remind his own friends of that sometimes, as the album had been out for two years, and aside from these bar shows, hadn’t gained much traction. 

Patrick played through four of his most popular tunes, and smiled as a few of the bar patrons sang along. That part -- attendees knowing his music -- was a fairly recent development, after a late night DJ had goneon a tangent about his favorite "unknown" singer-songwriters and started airing a tune or two of Patrick's nightly. Strumming the last chord of the song from his album, he contemplated going to the back of the stage to trade out his guitar for his accordion. (No, despite the jokes, he did not carry a small accordion around in his pocket; that was just his appointment diary, which frankly was used more as a lyrics journal.) 

But before he had committed to picking up his accordion, a fire-inspired, orange, yellow, and black sweater, worn by a patron sitting on a bar stool, caught his eye. And there, with his dark thick eyebrows, and a smile that somehow tilted entirely to one side, stood the man that Patrick had been looking for, hoping for. Patrick had a quick intake of breathe that he was sure the microphone picked up. In that moment, the butler – Patrick’s guest at the show – Patrick’s date? – was staring straight into Patrick’s eyes. 

Breaking eye contact to reset himself for a moment, Patrick looked back down at his guitar. The lyrics were going to have to work the magic for him because Patrick was suddenly feeling nervous and not nearly as brave as he had been when he played this song during sound check. 

“I would like to dedicate this next song to someone who took me up on a special invitation to be here tonight. I would call you out by name, if I knew your name.” Patrick said into the microphone as he directed his gaze and knocked to the bar, where his guest was seated. 

_ Not more than three short years ago  
I was abandoned and alone  
Without a penny to my name  
So very young and so afraid  
No proper shoes upon my feet  
Sometimes I couldn't even eat  
I often cried myself to sleep  
But still I had to keep on going_

Patrick sang, with what he hoped was a buttery, enticing edge to his voice. 

The guest held Patrick’s gaze, his smile tilted into a question before giving a broader smile of recognition.

_I once was lost  
But now I'm found  
I got my feet  
On solid ground  
Thank you Lord  
If you believe  
Within your soul  
Just hold on tight  
And don't let go  
You can make it  
Make it happen_

Patrick sang the song as if he were unloading a part of his soul.

The crowd was in a surprised trance, and a few patrons were attempting to follow Patrick’s eye line and uncover the mystery-guest that Patrick was singing to. They whistled and clapped as Patrick finished the song with “_ He's gonna make it happen, Make it happen_”

At the end of the song, Patrick gave a quick smirk to his guest, and said into the microphone, “We’re going to take a quick break. Harrow Fair will be back up in a few minutes, and if they pull my arm, maybe I’ll come back up and do a George Jones cover with them. Oh, and I heard someone in the house had also made a special request for me to get out my accordion.” Patrick winked and smiled, and the patrons laughed but also cheered. Patrick left the stage, headed in the direction of the bar. 

When he approached the bar, Patrick heard his guest instructing the bartender on the last ingredient for a “polar bear shot.” Patrick stood beside him listening, but his guest only looked up when the bartender placed two shot glasses in front of him. Putting a shot glass in Patrick’s hand, he said, “First of all, an accordion is incorrect. But Mariah Carey on the other hand …” 

Nodding at the shot glass, Patrick asked with a smile that curled down at the edges, “What’s this?” 

“A polar bear shot.” 

Patrick took the shot down quickly, and his guest followed suit.

Patrick gestured towards his guest for a handshake. Latching on to the hand proffered in response, Patrick tripped over his name, “I’m P-Patrick.”

The butler, turned night-time fire-wizard, who seemed to have waved a wand to get Patrick into this befuddled, yet entranced state, paused, and then proffered: “Enrique." Pulling his hand back, Patrick's guest signaled the bartender to put in another order.

“I’m so glad you came, umm… Enrique,” Patrick tried to calm his overly-excited nerves with small talk, after his guest ordered two more polar bear shots. The name didn’t feel quite right on Patrick’s tongue; it didn’t quite fit this man, who reminded Patrick of a statue of a young King David that Patrick had once seen in a park in a European city. 

“Well," Patrick’s guest offered with a timid shrug and turn of his head, "my friend Stevie told me you were cute, and that I had to come."

Patrick dropped his eyes, but quickly looked back up with a smirk. At least Patrick's invitation had appropriately signaled that this was a date-like meet-up. They both watched as the bartender placed the two new shots in front of them. Patrick picked up and handed one to his handsome guest with a questioning look, before picking up his own. “Shall we?” Patrick asked. They tinked shot glasses, and downed their second round. 

“I’m gonna have to stop with that one. I’ve gotta be back on stage in a few minutes.” Patrick said.

Patrick’s guest nodded in acknowledgement, but not before a slight but enticing eye roll. 

Patrick waved at the bartender and ordered a water. “And a … ?” Patrick gestured to the bartender while looking directly at his guest. 

“A whiskey.” 

“A whiskey for the gentleman,” Patrick added to the order, and placed a $20 bill on the counter.

“You don’t have to do that,” his guest looked away, cagily.

“I’d like to,” Patrick stated with a slight upturn of his voice. "That drink is for coming tonight." Nodding at the bartender as he poured the whiskey, Patrick slyly stated to both of them: "The next one is on me, too. For calling me cute." 

A few moments later, his guest mused out loud, “A businessman and a butter-voiced musician." 

Patrick gave an amused smile.

“I was … 87% sure that I was going to regret coming to hear you play tonight,” added Enrique-the-butler. 

“Good to know,” Patrick said with a shy smirk. “Attended a few cringe-worthy open mic nights, have you?”

“Well, once, this guy showed up at my sister’s sweet sixteen party, and tried to serenade her with a Marvin Gaye song,” Patrick’s guest reminisced with an audible cringe. “Fortunately, MTV didn’t catch that part on film, and the producer found the guy’s after-interview to be so cringe-inducing, that he cut the guy completely from the show that aired.” The prattling guest added on something about how even MTV had standards. 

Patrick was so confused. Who was this stunning butler?

“It was almost as cringe-worthy as the diamond tennis bracelet that my dad gave my sister as a present that night. Incorrect.” Patrick’s guest finished his story with another eye roll. 

Patrick was smitten, and desperate for more banter with this surprising and bold human. “Well, for my sweet sixteen, there were no film crews. My parents bought me and my best friend Rachel bench seats at a Toronto Blue Jays game. I needed binoculars to read the catcher’s signs, we were so high up in the bleachers, but it was still one of the best days ever.” Patrick volleyed back with his own tale. 

“I don’t know what any of that means,” the guest replied. 

They bantered back and forth, with Enrique-the-butler sharing shocking tales from his youth and Patrick plying him with absurdly-heartwarming stories about growing up in a small town. Patrick thought that his guest’s stories had to be embellished. Right? Maybe his flirting style was telling over-the-top stories? Patrick had certainly been on dates with girls who did that, but something felt different about the way Enrique-the-butler told his stories. His voice was playful and teasing but also somewhat sad, and either he was great with deadpan (which didn’t appear to be true given his many face journeys throughout the conversation) or the responses to Patrick’s follow-up questions were … well, true. 

The conversation had halted, but Patrick caught on a few moments too late, when he realized that his eyes were staring directly at his Enrique-the-butler's lips. Patrick panicked. He had never kissed a guy before, and didn't even know how to do this. Sure, he had asked ‘Enrique’ on a date, but he had dared himself to ask guy’s out before and he had told himself that it was more about “the trill of the unknown” and “the thrill of the ask,” than anything he would seriously follow through with. But he had followed through with asking this man out, and Patrick was standing here with him, at a bar, enjoying his company and flirting. And staring at his lips. 

Shit. Patrick panicked. 

Patrick hurriedly said, “I hope you’ll stick around until the end of the show, but just in case, here’s my card. My cell phone number’s on the bottom. I think … ” But Patrick left off there and bounded toward the back of the room, so that he could hide at the part of the stage blocked from view by the drum set. 

***

When Patrick was finally called back on stage, he glanced towards the bar, and saw that his guest had left. Shit. Patrick hadn’t gotten his number, and Patrick knew Enrique-the-butler wouldn't call him. Not after that dumpster fire of a good bye. So, unless a quick google search for “MTV My Sweet Sixteen star with brother named Enrique” turned up something, Patrick was going to have to bother him at his place of employment again. 

***

Of course, when he google searched “MTV My Sweet Sixteen star with brother named Enrique”, nothing came up, and if the sleepless night at the hotel and his extra-long cold shower was any sign, Patrick had it bad for this guy. If he had been bold enough to kiss him, that could have led to more, and this sleepless night and shower could have been shared with the sexiest man Patrick had ever seen. Dammit. Patrick had never felt this strung out and horny in his life.

The next day, Patrick asked the bellman if he would deliver a message to a butler by the name of Enrique. The bellman told Patrick that he didn’t personally know of a butler named Enrique, but promised that he would be happy to accept the note and seek out Enrique as a favor to Patrick. Likely, the bellman thought that it was a tip or a thank you note or a typical service-related request. So, Patrick hastily scrawled out an invitation to dinner on hotel stationary, placed it in an envelope on which he wrote the name “Enrique”, and handed it to the bellman.


	3. That's not ... That's not your name.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At 7pm, Patrick was waiting in his suite, trying to plan out what to say if “Enrique” actually showed for the dinner date. He had ordered 2 bottles of wine, a red and a white; and the chef’s recommended dinner. Patrick had prearranged for the hotel staff to deliver the food and position the place settings ahead of Enrique’s probable arrival time because he didn’t want to embarrass Enrique by having his co-workers find him in Patrick’s room. He had asked the server to leave the wine corkscrew behind and had tipped her a little extra. Patrick had hurriedly handed her a second tip, asking the server to pass it along to the butler who had momentarily stepped into the room to hand over the too-high stacks of linens and place settings, which had covered his face, and who had left the room without otherwise being seen or heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love this chapter. And I've clearly seen Maid in Manhattan a few too many times.

David was late for the staff meeting. The 5am phone call from across the globe, alerting him to Alexis’s immediate need for him to send $4,000 for an emergency plane ticket home from Saudi Arabia had eviscerated his sleep and morning routine. Fuck. That was the last of David’s savings and part of next month’s rent money. He had gone to the bank at 8am and cleared out his accounts, then taken the train to the embassy. He had waited in the lobby of the embassy for nearly 3 hours before the embassy staff was able to connect with Alexis and to finalize the documents that would allow Alexis to get back home. Fuck.

Out of breath and hair askew, David snuck into the locker room in the basement of the hotel where the staff meeting was being held. There were a handful of other butlers in the room, along with bellmen, maintenance staff, and at least three dozen maids, which made in hard to spot Stevie at first. Eyeing her in the far corner, David slowly inched over to her side, trying not to catch the eye of the hotel manager who was droning on about a new hospitality management training program that the hotel was offering to qualified employees. 

David pushed a garment bag under Stevie’s arm in a desperate attempt to rid himself of the evidence of his outing in borrowed Givenchy. David had delicately schlepped that bag around all morning, through the bank and the embassy and the numerous trains, sidewalks, and buses in between. Stevie grasped onto the garment bag and smirked at David, an unspoken question on her lips. David knew what Stevie was assuming – that he was late because he had been out all night with the businessman and that he was disheveled because he had been rolling around all night among said businessman’s sheets and pillows. David rolled his eyes and shrugged, slumping his shoulders, which was enough for Stevie to stop her teasing.

Choosing to leave her questions about David’s singing businessman until later, Stevie whispered up at David, “Are you hearing this?” Eyes gleaming, she added, “This is our chance. To get behind the desk.” From her fervent tone, notable even in her whispered voice, David knew that Stevie’s mind was busy scheming for that hospitality management training program.

From the first week they had known one another, David and Stevie had talked and daydreamed endlessly about what it might look like to get out of the shadows and behind the front desk at the hotel. Those conversations had evolved into musings about running the hotel, and then into a fantasy of owning their own place someday. They had settled on something simpler than the 500-room hotel with rich and pretentious patrons like where they currently worked. Their plan was for a roadside motel in a small town, catering to weary travelers driving through. Something with less than 20 rooms. Small enough for two people to operate, with maybe occasional help from a maintenance man to handle the dirtiest jobs. 

One drunken night at Stevie’s apartment they had even given their fantasy a name: “The Rosebud”. David and Stevie, in their alcohol-induced giddiness, had begun roleplaying and calling out orders to their imaginary employee at The Rosebud. Laughing before she could even get the words out of her mouth, Stevie nicknamed their pretend employee “Roland Schitt”. “Because he is going to be rolling around in the shit when the toilet is on the fritz in room 7,” she had sputtered out gleefully.

The drunken revelries were one thing, but David was too overwhelmed to think about hospitality management or training programs right now, what with the clandestine “borrowing” of a hotel patron’s clothes, Alexis’s latest escapades, his empty bank account, and sneaking in late to yet another staff meeting. David just wanted to start his shift and somehow get enough money in tips to pay his rent. 

The hotel manager left the room, and the hotel employees began gathering their things and straightening their uniforms to get back to their duties. A bellman spoke out among the crowd, “Enrique?” He was looking around, waiting for someone named Enrique to acknowledge him. A maintenance man, wearing a uniform shirt with name Enrique stitched on it, walked over to the bellman. The bellman shrugged, as if he was expecting someone else to respond, but after glancing around to see if there were any other takers, the bellman handed over a hotel envelope to Enrique and walked away. 

David heard and saw that exchange, but didn’t have the time or energy to chase down Enrique and find out whether that envelope was really intended for him. 

Stevie hurried off to the tailor’s office down the hall to hand over the borrowed Givenchy for the guest’s requested alterations. She also pulled out a note from the hotel patron that set out his measurements and specific instructions on how the tailor should go about his job. Stevie gave the old man a kiss on the cheek, after begging him to do the alterations first thing because she had “forgotten to deliver them during her shift yesterday, and the guest was expecting them by 3pm.” The old man winked at Stevie and nodded. Though she was perpetually angry at the world, Stevie knew how to turn on the charm to get what she needed.

****

David’s shift was long. Today, he was attending to an afternoon “tea” that consisted of 7 regal-looking women wearing high-end dresses and, not surprisingly from David’s personal experience with his own mother’s events, a variety of wigs. None of the guests tipped more than the bare minimum required for them to appear polite and dignified among the others at these events. He headed to the penthouse to serve a private 4pm happy hour for someone in the entertainment industry. New money, the type that was too frugal to tip well. Fuck, David thought to himself. This was not going to help with his rent situation. 

****

At 7pm, Patrick was waiting in his suite, trying to plan out what to say if Enrique-the-butler actually showed for the dinner date. He had ordered 2 bottles of wine, a red and a white; and the chef’s recommended dinner. Patrick had prearranged for the hotel staff to deliver the food and position the place settings ahead of Enrique’s probable arrival time because he didn’t want to embarrass Enrique by having his co-workers find him in Patrick’s room. He had asked the server to leave the wine corkscrew behind and had tipped her a little extra. Patrick had hurriedly handed her a second tip, asking the server to pass it along to the butler who had momentarily stepped into the room to hand over the too-high stacks of linens and place settings, which had covered his face, and who had left the room without otherwise being seen or heard. 

Patrick propped his guitar within reaching distance from the table, so that he could serenade the butler if the mood struck them. God, Patrick knew that was dumb, but he so desperately wanted to court and romance this handsome man.

A few minutes after 7, there was a knock on Patrick’s door. Patrick stood up, smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the breast of his blue sport coat, and walked to the door. With a quick inhale and a smile of anticipation, Patrick opened the door. 

“Hi, Patrick!” A man looked at Patrick through the open door excitedly. In contrast to the joyous pink of this man's face, Patrick’s face drained of all color in that moment, as he read the name "Enrique" on the man's shirt and saw Patrick’s handwritten dinner invitation in the man’s hand. 

“Enrique?” Patrick stuttered out, staring wide-eyed at the unexpected stranger in front of him.

“When I fixed your faucet yesterday, I wasn’t even sure you noticed me, let alone that you _noticed me_ noticed me!” Enrique leaned in and kissed Patrick on the cheek. __

_ __ _

_ __ _

Too embarrassed to blurt out that the bellman had made a horrible mistake and acting on the good manner's that Marcy Brewer had implanted in him at a young age, Patrick instinctively opened the door wider, and allowed Enrique to walk into the room.

“I’m just going ... to use the restroom real quick ... And then I’ll be back.” Patrick said hurriedly, as he walked into the bedroom portion of his suite and closed the door behind him. 

Patrick leaned against the wall, then slide down until he was sitting on the floor. This is not how he pictured this evening going at all.

***

After suffering through an hour-long dinner conversation about the benefits of copper versus PVC piping, Patrick had nearly pushed Enrique out the door, thanking him profusely for helping with the faucet yesterday and desperately hoping that Enrique viewed this as a thank you dinner rather than a date. 

But when Patrick closed the door, he felt desperate in another way. He had a craving deep down in his soul for a romantic dinner with the mysterious butler who wore stunning designer clothes to a bar. Wanting to hear more about the butler’s family and childhood. But also, in a way that Patrick had never felt before, wanting to touch him and kiss him and lose himself in him. 

Laying down on his bed, he pictured the butler in the bright colored sweater from the night before. Patrick remembered how it felt to have the butler’s dark eyes stare into his from across the bar, and the feel of the playfulness of his smile light Patrick up. In his mind’s eye, Patrick saw the dark, thick eyebrows, and beautifully sculpted jaw. Patrick wanted to run his fingers along the man’s jawline, wanted to lean in and gently kiss him, wanted to tug on his dark locks and knock them out of place. But how could Patrick enjoy him like that if he couldn’t even find him? Patrick was catching on to the fact that the butler had used a fake name. But for some reason, the butler had shown up that night. Instead of the discouragement that Patrick assumed he should have felt from having been given a probably-fake name, the fact that he had shown up at the bar at all made Patrick feel wild and wired. 

Getting his laptop out of his brief case, Patrick skimmed through online summaries of nearly every My Sweet Sixteen episode that had ever aired on MTV. There were a few female stars with older brothers mentioned in their bios, but he couldn’t find those episodes online. He stalked one of the stars on social media, and after skimming through hundreds of pictures and posts (the newest of which were from 2015, the star having gone media silent since then), he found a post that said, “My big brother David rescued me after two months trapped in Turkey! So sweet!” And there he was, David Rose, Patrick’s mysterious butler, staring at the camera helplessly, as his sister gave her best posed-selfie fish face. In the picture, David was a younger, less-weathered version himself, but there was no mistaking that those beautiful eyebrows and that bunched up smile belonged to one and the same.

First with excitement and anticipation, then with wincing fear and sadness, Patrick googled and read about David Rose. He found pictures of a naked, bound, sometimes gagged, and clearly coked-out David that had apparently been hung in public art galleries. Patrick read explanatory articles quoting the photographer, Sebastian Raine, saying that he had managed to capture the photos of David as nature intended him to be. Patrick read about the manhunt for a financial manager named Eli who embezzled the Rose family fortune. He read the news about the revenue agency seizing all of their assets and leaving the Rose family homeless. 

***

Not long after 10pm, there was a knock on Patrick’s door. Patrick’s heart sped up momentarily, until he saw the CEO of his company through the peep hole. Sighing, Patrick let his boss into the room. “Hey, Pat, let’s go over those numbers quick. I think that Capital Investors is going to sign on to buy a 40% interest in the company.”

The CEO spots the dinner plates still sitting out on the table and looks at Patrick with a question on his face. “Company?”

“Ray, I don’t want to talk about it tonight.” Patrick replied, addressing his boss informally, as he usually did when there weren’t investors or bankers to impress.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve put yourself out there.” Ray had helped Patrick through a rocky year when Patrick had broken off his engagement with his lifelong friend and high school sweetheart, Rachel. Ray had even let Patrick rent a room in Ray’s house, after he discovered Patrick had left his shared apartment with Rachel and had no place to go. 

Patrick shrugged and stayed silent. 

“Someone special?” Ray pushed against Patrick’s attempt to shut down the conversation.

Dismissing the fact that Ray was clearly referencing Enrique and the empty dinner plates, Patrick’s mind wandered to David. “Maybe? I don’t know. I don't know if I am allowed to call him someone special. But I'll tell you who he isn't. He isn't like anyone I've ever met before.”

That night Patrick hugged into himself in bed, half fending off the desperate feeling of wanting that he had for David, and half terrified the he felt so much for a stranger who didn’t even give him his real name. Those feelings would have to wait until daylight, when David was hopefully back to work. In another life, he would have spent days embarrassed about the bizarre dinner that he had just had with Enrique, but in the version of himself that he is only just now discovering, Patrick thought only about David. 

****

The next morning, there, ushering Patrick along with a cluster of other men in suits into Suite B13, was a certain butler in a black waistcoat, with a Windsor cut white shirt underneath, and a single-folded pocket square. 

“Good morning, David,” Patrick said, as David pulled out Patrick’s chair. 

David winced upon hearing his name. And then a blush crept up David’s neck, leaving his ears red. Fuck. He knew that this was going to be an awkward day when he learned that he was assigned to B13. He had set out the name plates, including Patrick’s, and had been waiting to get the initial greeting over with. But this was worse than David could have imagined. Patrick had somehow learned his real name. Not knowing whether to be embarrassed (did Patrick go down the google rabbit hole and learn about David’s past?) or whether to be annoyed (had Patrick been asking around about him at the hotel? Had he seen David sneak in and out of Patrick’s room last evening with the linens and place settings?), David tried to put his professional face on. No face journeys today, David promised himself. 

“Good morning, Mr. Brewer,” David responded in his butler-trained voice. If the hotel manager had not been standing five feet behind him, David would have run away at this point. Instead, David put on his best trained professional voice, and added, “May I get anything for you, Sir?”

It was Patrick’s turn to wince. Patrick didn’t want David to humble himself in front of him. Patrick wanted to worship David, to make David smile, to take David out to dinner, to wake up next to David. Woah, Patrick had to stop that line of thought. Trying to find a balance between the internal desperation Patrick was actually feeling and the need to be professional in front of the probable investors seated across from him, Patrick replied, “A tea, please.” At least this way, David would have to come back to Patrick’s side and Patrick would have time to come up with something clever to say. 

David closed his eyes, almost in a grimace, and nodded. “One moment, Sir.” 

Fuck, David thought to himself. What was that expression that had just crossed Patrick’s face? The expression seemed desperate and needy and … nice? This man was going to be the death of him.

Not remembering what Patrick had actually ordered, David returned with a plated scone and set it in front of Patrick. 

Looking down at the scone, trying to mask the mix of confusion and amusement, Patrick simply said, “Thank you.” Patrick handed David all of the cash in his money clip, not even knowing how much was there, too distracted to even consider whether it was too much or too little, and smiled up at David meekly. Patrick was out of moves. He had no idea how to do this. 

So, hearing nothing else, David acknowledged the tip with a thank you nod, and went back to his position at the door. Fuck, this was awkward.

***

At the end of his shift, David found an envelope in his locker. Inside was a ticket to a $4,000 per plate dinner at a fundraiser. “Formal attire required.” David took a few moments to digest all of that information. There was a picture of a smiling child with a sutured cut on his lip on the ticket. Apparently, the fundraiser was for plastic surgery for kids? At least that’s what David assumed when he saw the name of the guest speaker, who was a well-known plastic surgeon. Also, what was with that dollar figure this week? The money gods were trying to torture David.

Along with the ticket, there was also a hastily scrawled note on hotel stationary in the envelope, “I only have one more night in town. I need to see you. Please come as my date, David.”

“Fuck,” David said out loud to himself. Among the many other thoughts and emotions coursing through him, he was stuck on the “formal attire required” line. Two months prior he had been forced to sell his brown-and-black Prada tux to raise funds to pay Alexis’s ransom money to Somalian pirates. 

He pulled out his phone, and texted Stevie: _SOS. Need a tux for a date with Patrick_.

David’s boss walked into the locker room just then with a wide smile on his face. “I am so happy that you applied for the hospitality management training. I’d like to get both you and Stevie started next Monday.”

David froze for probably too long. Then he nodded at his boss and faked a half smile.

When his boss finished relaying details and walked out of the room, David pulled out his phone and texted Stevie again: _Fuuuuuck. What did you do, Stevie?_


	4. It's not like in the movies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a wink and a kiss on the cheek of a stylish saleslady, Stevie had snagged a tux and accoutrements (cuff links! bow tie! shoes! cashmere socks!) from the hotel’s in-house luxury store, arranged a fitting and quick alterations with the hotel’s tailor, and gotten David … the best gift a friend had ever given him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft moments for David with Stevie. Then with Ray. Then with Patrick. Then with Alexis. Also, a kiss. And angst.

Fucking Stevie to the rescue. With a wink and a kiss on the cheek of a stylish saleslady, Stevie had snagged a tux and accoutrements (cuff links! bow tie! shoes! cashmere socks!) from the hotel’s in-house luxury store, arranged a fitting and quick alterations with the hotel’s tailor, and gotten David … the best gift a friend had ever given him. 

Stevie drives a hard bargain, though, and in exchange, David was fully committed to starting the hospitality management training program alongside Stevie. On Monday. But for tonight, Stevie had arranged for him to be treated to luxury. 

Stevie shoved David into her friend Alice’s styling chair at the hotel spa, because of course she had known how insecure David would feel in a luxury tuxedo without proper grooming. Alice’s girlfriend Elena gave David a facial, while Alice freshened David’s cut and styled his hair, and then finished him off with a facial hair trim that left the perfect amount of stubble on David’s now-glowing skin.

Stevie, Alice, Elena, the tailor, and the stylish saleslady whistled at David as he stepped onto the sidewalk in his tux. Stevie adjusted his bowtie, and then gave him a hug, while ushering him into one of the hotel’s town cars, complete with chauffeur. 

For a moment, it was as if David had never left his life of luxury behind. Except something felt different. Better. Maybe he was different, or maybe this was what it felt like to be supported by a friend, his first ever best friend, Stevie, or what it meant to be seen, truly seen, by a man like Patrick. David still hadn’t talked to Patrick since that night at the bar. He still didn’t know whether he should be here in this moment with this man, but he felt confident and beautiful in a way that he had never before felt. 

The venue was an art museum, created from a former train station. David had never been here, as the museum having opened only recently, well after his family’s fall from grace. As his chauffeur opened the door, David’s heart sped up. Was he really here in this moment? In this tux, with pampered skin, with a driver, standing in front of this stunning building? 

David tripped slightly as he walked up the front steps of the museum. His heart was now pounding. 

Two greeters accepted his invitation into their hands as he walked in the door, and directed him inside. The event appeared to be taking place in the main lobby, with large windows overlooking the street at the entry way and a flower garden to the rear, and twinkly lights opening up the view into the night. The venue was breathtaking, but at that moment, the eyes in the room had turned away from the windows and the carefully-curated art selection, seemingly simultaneously watching David walk into the room. That had happened to David before, but never in a way that made David feel confident and seen. Where did that confidence emanate from? Perhaps it was the pair of eyes at a far corner of the room that were sparkling at him. Patrick’s eyes. Patrick’s smile, which somehow seemed to be blossoming as Patrick walked towards David. To David, it felt as if Patrick was walking on water as he made his way to him.

“Hi, David,” Patrick said in a breathy voice, as he leaned in to kiss David’s cheek. Still cheek to cheek, Patrick whispered, “You look striking.” 

Patrick pulled away and stared at David, looking at David as if he was the most handsome man Patrick had ever seen. David had shown up looking like a prince for a date with Patrick, and Patrick spent the night treating David like a prince. 

Patrick took David by the arm, whispering compliments to David at a level that only David could hear, followed by “Let me get you a drink before I introduce you to everyone.”

With a drink in one hand and opposite hand comfortably on the small of David’s back, Patrick guided David around the room, introducing him to the other guests at the fundraiser. David knew how to do this. He acknowledged each person that Patrick introduced to him, and made small talk complimenting the venue and making vague comments in support of the still-not-clear-to-David charitable cause. He got to learn a few things about Patrick during these conversations, and offered up a bit about himself as well. And Patrick listened to him, and kept bashfully looking, staring, at him. 

Patrick introduced David to dozens of people – investors, developers, politicians, corporate executives – but no one more memorable than Ray, the company CEO. Throughout the dinner, David sat between Patrick and Ray, both of them making him laugh and feel accepted and comfortable. David had never just felt comfortable in a crowded room before. And while his fashion choices often made David the center of attention for a few moments, David had spent most of his life with people who looked past him, eager for the next thing, using David as a stepping stone to someone or something better. Patrick had a way of including David in the conversations that made David feel warm and seen.

“So, David, let’s go and inspect some art while Patrick talks numbers with our investor friends.” Ray’s eyes seemed to David to be dancing mischievously, as he stood up from the dining table. And with that, Ray had whisked David off to visit a large painting, and spun them off into a 30 minute giggling conversation where Ray and David gushed over a shared love of sand and stone color palettes and various artists with that aesthetic appeal.

****

Patrick was trying to talk numbers – interest rates, dividend projections, -- and new product development, and some buzzwords that his marketing department had fed him. But the man across the room, now arm in arm and giggling with Ray, commanded his attention. Ray had smiled at Patrick knowingly, as if Ray recognized from Patrick’s puppy-dog eyes that David was the man that Patrick was pining over – the person like none other that Patrick had met before. 

David was wearing a stunning tuxedo, with perfect skin and hair and stubble that Patrick wanted to touch. Patrick couldn’t help but wonder at the fact that David was his date. The most beautiful man that Patrick had ever seen had accepted a second invitation from Patrick, to spend time with Patrick, again, and Patrick was losing his mind over it. Patrick was the luckiest man in the room, and likely the luckiest man in the city that night. 

Patrick’s eyes found David so frequently that the investor bending Patrick’s ear took notice, and with a smirk on his face, the investor said, “Go and get your man” and gently pushed Patrick in the direction of David and Ray. The investor looked pleased with himself, as if he too felt and appreciated the glow coming off of Patrick caused by David’s presence at the event.

“May I break David away for a few moments, Ray?” Patrick inquired of Ray, as he approached the giggling pair. There was that grin of David’s, curving to one side. David looked at Patrick curiously and blinked with a flare before setting his empty champagne flute on the tray of a passing server. Patrick had never seen someone blink in such a sexy way. Patrick could lose his mind with that kind of outright flirting being directed at him. 

Without waiting for Ray’s permission to steal David away, Patrick slipped his arm around David and pulled him towards the door to the museum’s garden, in search of a moment of privacy. In a move that made Patrick stumble and walk a little faster, David took advantage of Patrick’s unbuttoned jacket, and reciprocated by placing his arm around Patrick’s back, under his coat, fingers grazing along Patrick’s belt until David’s hand landed on Patrick’s opposite hip. 

In the garden, Patrick untangled himself from David, but immediately regretted the loss of contact, so he reached for David’s hand. Patrick stared at the ground as they walked, feeling suddenly shy. The hand holding was all of the intimacy that Patrick could muster, and if he opened his mouth to speak again, Patrick was terrified that he might admit too much. Too much for a second date. Too much for a man he had only met this week. Too much for a man who deserved the admiration that Patrick felt for him but would likely be scared away if Patrick expressed it. So, Patrick walked hand in hand with David, lips sealed, with eyes on the ground, and allowed himself to be overwhelmed from the warmth of the moment. 

David stood there, waiting. When Patrick finally looked up, David smiled at him. “This has been a fun night,” David said, encouraging Patrick. Patrick unintentionally dropped his eyes to David’s lips before looking away. David took that as a invitation, and reached his hand around Patrick to rest it on Patrick’s neck. Patrick moved a millimeter closer, and David pulled him the rest of the way, so that their lips met. 

Both of them shuttered at the sensation, each realizing for himself that this was a sensation connected to an emotion that he had never experienced before, but neither noticing that the intensity was mutual. All each knew was that he wanted more, and that the other was inviting him to take what he wanted and needed. 

***

David woke up beside Patrick. It was 6am and Patrick was sleeping peacefully under the white duvet. David slipped out of Patrick’s hotel bed, pulled on the borrowed tuxedo pants that he had carefully draped over a chair in the waning hours of the night before. David gently tugged the white button up over his shoulders. David quietly slipped on his shoes, and draped his belt and his tuxedo jacket over his right arm, checking the pocket to be sure that the cufflinks were still where he had cautiously stored them the night before and double-checking the concealed inner pocket that held his employee ID badge. Picking up his phone from the nightstand, David closed the bedroom door softly without looking back, and then exited the suite. With his eyes down, David made his way to the employee changing room and quickly exchanged the tux trousers for his joggers, then stowing the cufflinks in their box to be polished and placed back behind the glass at the hotel luxury store. The stylish saleslady was just arriving to work to do an early-morning inventory, and David took advantage of the quiet hotel and momentary absence of the front desk attendant to knock on the store window and return the luxury tuxedo and accoutrements. Masquerading as prince charming was over, and David woke up to a feeling that he did not belong here as a guest. It was time for him to return to his studio apartment in a questionable neighborhood on the east side. 

In David’s mind, he knew that he had nothing more to give to Patrick, and that he would never see Patrick again. David knew this in his soul. Knew this from life experience. So, it was better that he didn’t say goodbye. 

***

Alexis was waiting for him on the stoop of his apartment building when he got home at 6:45am. Her plane had just gotten in, having been delayed by customs on her lay-over in London on her way home from Saudi Arabia. Instead of saying hello, Alexis greeted him with an eye roll and complaint about how the world had wronged her. “Customs forced me to abandon the jewelry that the Saudi prince gave me. As if I didn’t deserve to be treated to some fine things after being treated so abominably by the royal family’s security team.” 

Alexis looked at David as if he would sympathize with her, but even she could tell by the expression on David’s face that something had broken him.

David scaled six flights of steps, ignoring the broken elevator signs that greeted him at every landing. Entering the apartment and leaving the door open for Alexis to drag her own suitcases inside, David went straight for his bed. Several minutes later, Alexis gently closed the door and plopped her luggage on David's couch, and then crossed the room to sit down on the edge of David’s bed. 

“Tell me about it, David,” she said, reaching for his hand, and smiling with just the right amount of empathy. It was amazing how, in just over 48 hours, Alexis had terrified David and spent down his bank account, unapologetically complained about her own struggles, and then held his hand in a way that could calm his soul. 

Nodding at Alexis, David picked up his phone, and scrolled through his text messages before pushing the phone over to Alexis. On his screen was a picture of David and Patrick facing each other in the museum garden, twinkling lights around them, with private smiles on their faces. Ray had taken the photo, and after conspiratorially asking for David’s number when they were saying their goodbyes, Ray had texted the photo to David.

“Oh, he’s a sweet little button face,” Alexis said with a sympathetic frown, expanding the photo with her thumb and index finger to get a closer look at Patrick’s face in the photo. Her expression seemed to acknowledge that her brother must be in deep over this one, and not in a good way. It wasn’t like him to shame walk home at 6am and cry in bed. Or, at least not in recent history. David was the strong one. 

Alexis leaned down and kissed David’s forehead, as if caring for a sick patient. 

With that, she patted him on the shoulder and got up from her seated position on the side of David’s bed, going to the other side of the room to make herself a bed on David’s couch. Since the Rose family had lost their money, Alexis had been forced to sleep on a lot of couches, but whether she was gone for a few days or a few months, she always found herself back on David’s couch in this studio apartment, the most stable home she had.

They both slept until late afternoon. When David rolled over and glanced at his phone, there were two missed calls and a text message from an unknown number. Patrick. David put the phone back under his pillow without responding, and went to his kitchenette to make sandwiches for himself and Alexis.


	5. You're going to miss me when I'm gone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a bit, but I missed butler David, so here he is moping but also being mature and goal-oriented.

David and Alexis ordered pizza. They watched Notting Hill, and mouthed Julia Robert's words in the bookstore. They watched Bridget Jones, all three movies, and lamented how David was such a Bridget. Alexis seemed to know that David wasn’t ready to speak his truths about Patrick. When the movies were over, David left Alexis asleep on the couch and hid himself under his bedspread. If only he could pop a pill and fall into a coma. For that, he would need to see a therapist, and get a prescription, and pay two co-pays. So, he laid there and didn't sleep, and listened to the incessant pinging of Alexis's phone on the kitchen counter. 

The next morning David made Alexis pancakes with a box mix, while she sat on the couch scrolling through her phone.

"David, we should go to Maui. Miley's executive assistant told me that her yacht will be docking there tomorrow and he can get me on. And I met a guy named Marcus who works for Delta and has buddy passes on a flight that leaves in a few hours and that can get us to Maui before the yacht arrives." Alexis double winked at David. "You look like you can use a vacation. Let me do this for you."

"I have to work tomorrow." David sighed deeply, not even giving Alexis an inch in this conversation.

"Okay." Alexis had learned that a deep sigh from David meant that she was on the wrong-track in soothing him. "How are things at the hotel?"

David groaned at the idea of work, but he had news and he also desperately wanted to set an example of responsibility and action for Alexis. Lord knows, their parents had never done that for them. "Stevie and I are starting a hospitality management training program tomorrow. They are going to train us in all of the departments across the hotel." He looked up, and was surprised to see a look of interest on Alexis's face and her phone screen turned off. "Stevie thinks that this is the first step towards owning our own hotel." 

Alexis gave a small smile. "This is a cute look for you." 

While they sat down for pancakes, David explained the dream to Alexis. His smile got bigger the longer that he talked.

"So where does the button face on your phone fit into this?" Alexis slid into the conversation, having politely ignored the ringing of David's phone in the other room.

"He can't. I broke so many hotel rules just to be with him for a few moments. I'm so scared that I'm going to lose my job and ruin everything for me and Stevie." David looked forlorn. "And he's too good for me. He's ... nice."

Alexis nodded, knowingly. "You deserve nice, David, if you want it. A nice hotel for you and Stevie to run on your own, and a nice boyfriend."


	6. Even Though I Am a Fool for Such a Stubborn Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "On work days, David put on his Tom Ford tee, his crisp white shirt and his waist coat, and went to work. Mariah Carey couldn't comfort him now, not when his thoughts returned to Patrick every time a Mariah lyrics crossed his mind. But still, David wore his butler uniform and showed up day-after-day for training."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Sebastian-style bullying and exploitation. Privilege and the lack thereof.
> 
> This is from David's perspective again. The next chapter will be from Patrick's perspective, I promise.
> 
> This is a somewhat tragic chapter, but we also learn a little about Patrick and David's night together from the previous chapters. 
> 
> I have no beta. Each and every editing error was made by me and went uncorrected by me.

The weekend bled into the week. Stevie and David began their cross-training around the hotel. The training should have taken 8 weeks to complete, per the original information provided to them about the hospitality management training program, but on day one of training, they had been informed that their training would be compressed because the hotel had an anticipated need for new low-level managers just weeks away. In a fun twist to their daily activities, in the first week, David found himself learning from Stevie how to make sheets perfectly taut and crisp in the bedrooms, and teaching Stevie how to inquire after a guest's needs in the most discreet matter and elegantly open doors like a butler. The second week would have them training on the hotel's operator lines, and then the hotel's reservation software. The third week was scheduled as front desk training for Stevie and David. 

Although they were not directly told why this unanticipated need for swift training of new managers came about, the hotel staff's rumor mill was at work, and from what Stevie overheard in the staff restroom, it sounded like a few managers had put in their notice and were to start work at the hotel across the street. Of course, no rumor mill was even necessary when it came to the knowledge that three other managers were fired after a complaint from a celebrity who had been staying in the penthouse suite. Something about leaked information to a gossip rag. 

***

At night, David let himself crumple and dream about Patrick. David read and listened to Patrick's messages. Why Patrick continued to leave the messages, mostly sent daily between the hours of 5 am and 7 am, David didn't understand. The messages were alternating between sweet and desperate. But even though he was enchanted by every message that he received from Patrick, David had steeled himself, promised himself, that he would not respond, that he would move on, and David didn't cave. 

The first nice person that David had ever been with, and David couldn't keep Patrick. It was easier for David this way. Maybe in his former life where he had resources and leisure time, when he had spare money to bail Alexis out from her exploits without working long hours, when he was never behind on his rent. But the man that David was before he lost everything? David knew that a nice guy wouldn't have been interested in him. David had never been nice--he wasn't even nice now--but before he had lost his wealth, David had been hardened and haughty and jealous and lacking perspective. So, David was left with this: in the life trajectory where Patrick wanted David, David couldn't have him, and in the failed life trajectory where David could have freely pursued Patrick, Patrick wouldn't have wanted David. It just couldn't work, and no alternate universe could make it so. 

David tried his best to keep his revelries about Patrick to his few after-work, waking hours. This meant that every post-Patrick night was a repeat of the last. In the early evening hours, his thoughts were on the conversations that he had shared with Patrick at the gala, and on their late night, hand-in-hand walk back to the hotel. David had never felt so cherished as he did the night that he had spent with Patrick. Patrick had genuinely listened to David's stories with interest, and Patrick had gently teased him in return. In his past life, David had hated being teased, but Patrick's teasing had felt affectionate to David. 

In the late night hours of David's daily post-Patrick routine, David's thoughts were on the way that Patrick had kissed him--the way that Patrick had cupped his jaw when they kissed chastely, the way that Patrick had bit David's lowered lip when the kiss got frenzied, the way that Patrick had welcomed David's wandering kisses by leaning his head back to give David access to his neck. And fuck, the way it had felt to be bare chest to bare chest with Patrick. His small apartment did not lend to privacy while Alexis stayed with him, so David found himself needing the privacy of a late night shower to fully process those late night thoughts.

Each morning David stowed the notes, ticket stub, and invitation from Patrick into a box at the top of his closet, and vowed to stop dwelling on the messages on his phone, and yet, every evening when he walked through the door after work, the mementos came back out of the closet and David pulled up the picture that Ray had sent and scrolled through the messages from Patrick. And the nights repeated themselves, desperate and lonely and yet somehow joyful at the idea that someone like Patrick existed in his orbit, if only for a few short moments. 

***

On work days, David put on his Tom Ford tee, his crisp white shirt and his waist coat, and went to work. Mariah Carey couldn't comfort him now, not when his thoughts returned to Patrick every time a Mariah lyrics crossed his mind. But still, David wore his butler uniform and showed up day-after-day for training. 

Even juxtaposed against the anguish that he let himself feel after he clocked out and even without the comfort of Mariah Carey, David should have enjoyed his training. He was genuinely interested in gaining knowledge, and his and Stevie's dream of "getting behind the desk" seemed ever closer. But there were unexpected stressors at the hotel, specifically directed at David. That staff rumor mill that had worked out the not-to-secret exploits of the fired and leaving managers was whispering about David in the same way. They were talking about the borrowed Givenchy from Mr. Smith, and Stevie even overheard some maids mention Patrick by name. It had taken a few days for that gossip to reach Enrique. And when it did, the gossip suddenly turned vicious. It turned out that Enrique was the jealous type, and hadn't taken kindly to David seeing Patrick after Patrick's dinner with Enrique. Enrique started leaving nasty notes in David's locker, and he added wickedly untrue things about David to the already-circulating gossip. Daily, not to be outdone by his bitter acts from the day before, Enrique expanded his campaign. Apparently, Enrique had taken to Google and found the stories about Sebastian and Eli. Enrique shared the photographs that Sebastian had displayed of David. Whereas David's name and history had previously been unknown to the hotel staff, now--at the hands of Enrique--David was re-living the humiliation and loss that Sebastian had caused. It turns out that being torn down by yours peers was awful regardless of your social class, but in a world where there was no spare money, David couldn't hide out in a mansion or fly away to Europe for a momentary reprieve. 

Stevie was attempting to shield David to the best of her ability. She started arriving early to work, and spending her breaks, checking David's locker for Enrique's latest hate notes, in an attempt to remove them before David found them. 

But Stevie was going through a personal crisis as well. Her Aunt Maureen died unexpectedly, and having no other family to handle Aunt Maureen's final affairs, David accompanied Stevie on a road trip to rural Ontario to plan and execute a funeral in the course of their 48 hours off following week 2 of their training program. 

The rumors and bullying had escalated day after day and week after week. But David persisted. He got out of bed, even after nights filled with Patrick fever dreams. He returned to work, even in the face of renewed humiliation. 

Three weeks after David's beautiful night with Patrick, someone left an anonymous note in the room of the hotel's long-term guest, Mr. Smith. The note claimed that David and Stevie had stolen Mr. Smith's designer clothes. There was no disputing the evidence on the video cameras of Stevie and David walking into Mr. Smith's room wearing hotel uniforms, and David walking out the door wearing borrowed Givenchy. And that is how Stevie and David lost their jobs one day shy of completing their hospitality management training program.


End file.
